Masks
by Azure dream
Summary: Everyone has something to hide, but there are times when the illusions fade. Character drabbles.
1. Shinobi

note- _italics are for emphasis_, brackets are for thought> and _italicized brackets_> are for big thoughts. Enjoy.

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Sometimes, when she just knows no one else is looking, she stops smiling.

Her little face, with its pert mouth and large, stormy grey eyes, will change entirely, as if she had aged in dog years, as if she were older than the rest of them together. Ah, the arrogance of youth gives way to the temperance of early maturity.> Isn't that a line from one of the poems her father made her learn?

She snorts. Early maturity her _ass._ It has nothing to do with maturity. It's death that makes her old-watching it, running from it, causing it. It's the look on a dragon's scaly face when she cuts the head _clean off_ that makes her old. It's the gargling noise of blood shooting out of a man's mouth when she catches him _dead on_ with a swipe of Conformer. But worst of all, it's the quiet serenity in her mother's eyes-the acceptance of fate, the departure to the lifestream; worst of all, it's watching that body fall backwards, always a woman, always _falling> _and knowing, the knowing that she can't do anything to stop it.

It's seeing her mother and the Cetra, both stabbed cleanly with that blade-that one that causes wounds so devastating that even magic cannot heal them-it's promising herself that she will not see another falling to that blade, and failing.

It's watching him kill them even in her dreams, whether it be in the fields of Wutai or the shrines of the Ancients.

She always wakes early from those dreams-earlier than the dawn, at that time of night so dark she wonders if the man in the cloak can see through it. She does her best to wake before the Guardian or the completely depressed blonde, the goth in the cape, the woman with the gloves. Because that's how she identifies them now, just people without names, bodies with characteristics. A stuffed mog with a cybernetic cat. A large with a gun for an arm. A foul mouthed pilot that always wears goggles.

When she smiles again, these bodies before her will have names, personalities, purpose. She will care for them and protect them with all of her heart. But for now, they are nothing. They are tools on her way to vengeance, they are stepping stones on her path to salvation. Because at this time of night, when her best-hidden fears, her regrets, her failures have found their way into her mind, she is not a child.

She is a shinobi, and her smile is only a mask.

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A/N I always thought the fact that Yuffie is a shinobi is downplayed in fics, you know? it isn't just her mad skillz, it has to be her way of thinking as well. Anyway, that's Yuffie. next chapter: Cloud. 


	2. Footprints

When it rains, he instinctively steps into the water, hoping that it will wash him clean. He does not know where this habit comes from, but this doesn't worry him anymore. It is merely another fact of his life. There will always be a little touch of the eccentric to his actions that even he may not comprehend, because of what has been done to him; the most notable of which is his aversion to mirrors.

Or perhaps it is not the mirror but his reflection itself that startles him, day after endless day. The mako-tinged eyes that frighten him a little, no matter how many times he sees them-the blonde hair he doesn't quite recognize.

He realizes why this is, of course. To someone not quite sure of themselves in the first place, exposure to pure mako-which is pretty much the dead souls of ages past-is a death sentence in itself. All of those thoughts that aren't his, all of these reactions are merely the footprints of some dead guy that got shot through his mind during the treatment. They're all just footprints, some large and some small. The actions merely correspond.

Like when he eats near an entire pizza by himself. He realizes that normally, he hates tomato sauce, but this isn't him eating anymore. Or when he nearly cuts that annoying ninja in half. He doesn't really mind her antics-a lot of the time, he enjoys them-but he's not entirely in control. Or, in a much more complicated way, how he loves the Cetra. It feels as if someone is getting butterflies for him when she's around, magnifying the feelings he already has. It makes things endlessly complicated.

But worse than that is the fact that that masamune wielding bastard knows exactly what's going on and can manipulate those voices, those prints in his head, tell them what to do, control their every movement. It's hindering his journey and endangering his friends-it's killing them, but he doesn't know what to do.

He wants to wash the prints away and find who he is again-but something tells him that it's going to take a very long time.

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A/N Gawd, Cloud's got more baggage than an airport. And I'm sorry that yufie's thought in the last chapter are hard to read, but apparently brackets aren't supported...anyway, keep reading, and please review! Next Chapter-Nanaki! 


	3. Dead leaves

A/N Many thanks to schemergirl, my first review (and a very positive one at that! w00t!)

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Although the one in the cloak seems to have stopped aging entirely, he is sure that he is the oldest amongst the group. It doesn't bother him-he'll never age the way they do, these fragile beings. He'll never understand the constant nagging fear of untimely death, the fleeting breaths strung together in fleeting life. He is the closest thing they'll ever see to a true immortal, planet willing-as long as they stop that Catastrophe from the Sky. It's comforting and bewildering all at once. 

At the age of his species, he is merely a teen, no older than the ninja that constantly flicks water at his tail with a mischievous grin. But he is so much more than a child now-his burdens weigh on him, pressing down on his spirit until he cries out in battle, frustration allowing him to tear apart monsters by the ton. His carefully tended patience and wisdom fall away like dead leaves.

He smiles at this in his mind, this image of leaves fluttering away, because leafy plants do not grow in Cosmo Canyon. Only the spiky, hardened plants survive-the ones that hoard water in the dusty terrain and arm themselves with spikes and poisons. And that is what he has been sworn to protect, as the supposed last of his clan; beautiful, deadly plants tended by scholarly, loving fragile humans in the world's cradle.

There are times when he wishes he were someone else-anyone else-someone who had the ability to wander as they pleased, as carefree as-there it is again. Leaves on the wind.

He smiles to himself, because Cosmo Canyon has no leaves, no wanderers. The Canyon grows sturdy plants that fight to survive, deathly beauties resigned toliving in a world that fears them and misunderstands them. Cosmo Canyon, the cradle of the planet, creates a species that no one may identify but their own withering ranks. Creatures that give their blood and their life to protecting their world. Creatures that are frozen in stone, howling at the moon, dying for love, living for hope.

He reminds himself for the thousandth time that the leaves that blow away are the leaves that have died. But his clan, with their seemingly endless responsibility-they will live forever.

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A/N Nanaki feels a little hard to write. no matter. next chapter-Cid. Thanks for all the reviews and please keep coming! 


	4. Endless

Cid, as promised!

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He has the sneaking feeling that they'll never understand him. They'll never look into the stars and see a place, a place that may be explored and loved as surely as they love their home towns. They'll never be interested in the feeling of flying cleanly through a cloud and getting wet from the condensation, feeling the ice crystals that form on one's eyelashes, opening their mouths and tasting air as clean as the day it was made. He wonders if they've ever paused to feel the never-ending sky; because they believe the lifestream is the key to what the world was, before Shinra. This, he knows, is not true. Somewhere around ten-thousand feet, the world is perfect, unscarred, infinitely beautiful, endless.

But he doesn't hate them for it-it's a very rare person, he has realized, that feels this way; a person that looks at flying birds and sighs with longing. Someone with a dream so strong that gravity itself is powerless to stop them-someone willing to risk their lives every day for the high that is flight. He handpicks his crew for this-he looks into their eyes and searches for this manic need, this lunatic gleam of desire. It's how he met her, coincidentally.

That woman in the lab-coat; so structured, meek, bookish. So…earth bound. He had dismissed her almost immediately. But then she had stood before him, eyes flashing in the first and last bit of open defiance he would see out of her, and there it was.

Open sky. He had seen the purest, most never-ending need of it since he had seen in himself as a child. And she had promised her life to his dream.

He knows now that the world is soon to be destroyed, and there is a very large threat looming in his precious, endless blue. As he flies his ship toward this very danger, all he can see ahead of him is her eyes-so f& saving the world. He'll save her-and that pure devotion-any day of the goddamned week.

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Okay, next chapter-Aeris 


	5. Alone

Aeris was incredibly challenging to write. She's this angel that carries her burdens with a smile and never seems to show how weary she is; it's like they wanted to create something perfect. But even the angels had problems, right?

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Waking and sleeping, sleeping and dreaming, eyes open and closed, she hears it. It fills her head with whispers of every possible thought, every possible object-it tells her things she doesn't know and things she doesn't want to know. It's constant, never-ending and sometimes, the current is so strong she's sure that it will sweep her away, living or not. This, she reminds herself, is the way of the Cetra.

Her mother had warned her that the pull would be strong. The planet, above all, is the mother of the Cetra; the planet speaks to them alone-

Alone. The word rings through her, bouncing off the walls of her mind. It stops the whispers because they know she needs to think on it. Alone. She is alone, even in the most crowded of places, because the planet is dying and it wants to use her up. It demands her blood as sacrifice to heal its ravaged body; it is adamant that she should return from whence she came. She wants to laugh at this, but she dislikes the sound of bitter acceptance.

She finds comfort in the fact that even if she is the last of her race, there are others capable of understanding this feeling-the Guardian knows what it is to be the only child of his kind. She finds comfort in the fact that others know what it is _to be a prison_-to have someone locked inside of you that wants nothing more than your life. The one in the cloak, she knows, has monsters clamoring inside of him, begging for control…and the SOLDIER. She feels it when his mako enhancement, the leftover voices of her mother, talk him into strange ideas.

She finds comfort in the fact that the rest, even if they do not have this experience, are under such pressure as well; the martial artist that lost her everything to the Great General, the ninja that is giving her all for her country, the large man with the gun that only wants to provide a better life for his child. The planet demands that they give themselves for her cause. It clamors for the blood of martyrs.

And perhaps, in that respect, she is not alone at all.

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A/N I don't know who's next in this, but I'm thinking of Tifa or Barret. Maybe even Vincent. 


	6. Arrogance

A/N I wanted to do something with Tifa that gave her a darker side - an envious, borderline evil side that appreciates another fighter in all the wrong ways...I'm rambling. I mightwrite a few with Tifa, to check all the facets of her personality.

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"Do you know what ends most fights, student?" The girl shakes her head, her wine red eyes wide with curiosity, dark hair flopping. The thick leather gloves on her small hands creak as she grips, ready to make a guess. 

The young woman shakes her head and ends the memory, concentrating on the task at hand. The lesson was on overconfidence - her father's voice repeating, over and over, that arrogance ended the fight before it began. There is never a sure win, never an easy fight, he said, giving that soft smile of his; but he was wrong, she noted, wrong to say so. There was an easy fight, and she'd seen it.

It was the General, slicing his way through town, cutting a bloody swathe through Nibelheim as silver hair swayed behind him. It was the casually tossed match that destroyed decades of construction. An easy fight was the one fought swiftly and ruthlessly - the blade going through the Cetra's stomach before the girl could give another thought.

She was caught between a smile and a frown, between envy and horror - jealous of his skill, the lack of thought involved, the absolute conviction with which he ended life. He never looked back and questioned himself, never felt guilt over his means or ends, never glanced at dead men and women and envisioned orphaned children or widowed lovers. She couldn't tell the angel from the demon, and it scared her.

So when she gazed upon his form, wings sprouting from his back, and saw the one with pitch black feathers, she knew that it wasn't a mistake. She knew it was the only wing that mattered. The one winged angel was just as much devil as saint.

And he, above all, was guilty of arrogance.


End file.
